


Seeking

by Morgyn Leri (morgynleri)



Series: Northern Night [4]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Don’t copy to another site, Offscreen character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 21:32:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18599812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgynleri/pseuds/Morgyn%20Leri
Summary: Dreams are the beginning of all Seeking, but they are not the end, even when they no longer show the path forward. Alagosiell can only hope that the path forward is not as fraught as she fears it will be, with its beginning in a battle.





	Seeking

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Lferion for listening to my babbling, and to Lynati once more for instigating the creation of this AU.

**Silver Stars Over the Battle Rise**

Three great golden hulls rock on the tide, streaked with soot, and silent as the soldiers who watch them from the shore. Imrahil has seen hulls of that golden hue before, but never so massive, and not since he was a boy. Ships that had come up from Harad with spices and silks to trade, and had vanished as the Corsairs from Umbar raided ever more heavily.

Movement draws his attention, and he watches boats lowered into the water, though little sound carries across to the shore. Three figures stand out from the rest, dressed in brilliant crimson that glows in the sun. One to each boat, and as they come closer, he can see the wrapped veiling on two of them, though the third - the one whose boat is closest to shore - is bare-headed. All wear armor that puts him more in mind of Rhûn than of Harad.

"Hail and greetings, strangers." Imrahil does not wait for them to land before he speaks, though he wonders if they intend to speak at all, with the utter silence that accompanies the rowing sailors and richly-armored passengers. "What brings you to Gondor's shores?"

"From His Most Gracious and Glorious Majesty, Idhren, King of the Mallenrim, and Her Most Illustrious Highness, Alagosiell, Prince of Tol Sáid, do I bring greetings to you, Men of the Western Kingdoms of Fallen Númenor. They would ask to set foot upon your shores, that they may speak with those who have the order for battle against that most terrible of foes, the Master of Mordor."

Imrahil blinks, looking past the herald to the two in the other boats. One has silver edging on their veiling, the other is plain, though he knows nothing of what they mean, save as a way to tell one person from another.

"I bid you welcome, then, if you come to lend us aid in this darkening hour, and my thanks if you have given us relief enough from the Corsairs of Umbar that we might send more of our strength to Minas Tirith."

The herald inclines his head, a smile briefly crossing his face, waiting patiently while the sailors pull his boat to the beach before he climbs out, as do the two royals in the other boats. The one whose veil is edged in silver is slimmer than the other, and swiftly reaches up to unpin the fold across their face. The other snorts, and does not echo the gesture.

"The ships that sailed against us were left to worry more for spreading flame than for what they might do against these shores." Her voice is quiet, but there is no softness to it. "They shall not follow in our wake, Prince Imrahil."

Imrahil blinks, surprised that she already knows his name, and wonders how much of Gondor is known in whatever lands this unexpected help hails from. "Not soon enough to cause trouble, at least. I doubt they will be so gracious as to slink back to Umbar and there remain."

"Perhaps not, but that is a matter for another tide." The still-veiled royal speaks, his voice deeper than hers and underlaid with command steel. "Is it to you we should speak of what battle might be taken against the Master of Mordor, or is there another?"

"You are not the first to arrive with unexpected assistance, but we have yet to organize all that have come. You are welcome to join us at camp, and from there, we might decide how to bring all our forces to aid Minas Tirith." Imrahil turns to lead the way, listening to the muffled creak of armor behind him as they follow.

The camp itself is not far from the shore, if enough to be defensible, and Imrahil nods to the Rangers that guard the command pavillion before he ducks inside. Thorongil - Aragorn, as Imrahil has learned his name this time - is waiting with his companions, and the lords of the southern fiefs, and raises an eyebrow at Imrahil when he steps inside.

"Aid, rather than danger, brings the strange ships to our shores." Imrahil makes room for Idhren and Alagosiell to follow, Sinia almost an afterthought behind them, despite the crimson of his armor.

"Your Majesty." Aragorn tilts his head to the still-veiled Idhren, a warm smile crossing his face like sun peaking from the clouds. "I had not thought to see you this far west."

Idhren lets out a deep chuckle, and reaches out a hand to clasp the one that Aragorn offers. "I should not have come, were it not for Alagosiell. There are battles enough to fight in the east against the Master of Mordor."

"I will be where I must be, and you would not trust any other to watch over me in such a place, even those whose skill you know from their first blade and bow." Alagosiell pointedly ignores the stares from the lords in the tent, stepping closer to Aragorn, and turning enough that she could include Imrahil in her gaze. "We have ships enough to carry an army more than what they bear now, Lord Randír, Prince Imrahil, and for all their size, still may sail up a river as mighty as the Anduin."

Another name by which Aragorn is known, and Imrahil smiles at it. Wanderer, and he thinks it likely after Thorongil left Gondor, and vanished from the west for a time. Another he has served, and parted on terms friendlier than ever he had done with Denethor.

"Who are you that makes such an offer, that we should trust you?" The Lord of Lamedon is watching Alagosiell with undisguised suspicion, though whether that's for the eastern veil she wears, or that she is the sole woman in the tent, Imrahil does not know. Perhaps some of both.

"I am the one who brought an army to defend the White City, and the ships to carry it and more besides." Alagosiell smiles, even as Lamedon's gaze goes past her to Idhren, as if he expects him to contradict her. "His Most Glorious and Gracious Majesty is only here to command the army upon the field, not to dictate where it goes."

Lamedon opens his mouth to say something more, and Imrahil raises his hand, meeting his gaze. "She is a Prince in her own right, Lamedon, and it is not for you to question her right to command the ships that moor off the shore, nor the army upon them. I trust they will do us no harm, and the King, at least, is known to Aragorn."

"They are easterlings. How can we trust them?" Lamedon steps forward from the others, though none of them look reassured.

"If I may, Your Highness?" Sinia steps forward, and Imrahil sees more than one of the lords start. "You speak of my most gracious prince and glorious king as easterlings, when you know nothing of the Great Plain or the Wall of the East, called so simply the Orocarni by those who have come from the west of those towering peaks, much less the lands beyond.

"His Most Glorious and Gracious Majesty, Idhren, King of the Mallenrim, commands the army of Gaearon Rhûnen, the realm of the uttermost east in the lands before the sun, whose queens trace their mothers in unbroken line to Ócëenda, daughter of Palancirion of Númenor.

"At the crowning of Maethiel, the last daughter of Gaearon Rhûnen to travel to Númenor to serve in the court of the High King, all ties were broken to a failing throne decieved by the Master of Mordor, even unto our reckoning of the Ages of the World. Though when the Kingdoms of the West needed our aid most, Ramnaur, King of the Mallenrim, his sons, and his oath-sons, still came west to fight alongside Elendil and Gil-Galad. And at the Seige of Barad-Dûr, Ramnaur fell alongside your great kings.

"Her Illustrious Highness, Alagosiell o Palancirion, Prince of Tol Sáid, is of that line, and stands as the Voice of the Queen in these Western Kingdoms of Fallen Númenor. She brings to you her father, who has seen many a battle with the turning of the years against those who bow under the yoke of the Master of Mordor, and with him, soldiers enough to bring down an army."

Sinia looks down his nose at Lamedon, who is staring at him now. "Be you glad that there is one who she found worthy of sailing through the Inner Seas, sacrificing two ships to see a fleet of pirates burning in her wake that would have fallen upon your shores given the chance, and offering to even such as you a swift means to bring your soldiers to where they might do the most to defend this kingdom."

Lamedon stiffens, glaring at the herald, although he seems to have seen enough sense not to open his mouth and insult their newest allies again. For that, at least, Imrahil is glad.

"Who is she sailing for, then?" That's the younger of Tarnost's two sons, watching Alagosiell with a small frown that looks to be more thought than disapproval. "Why would you come from so far for something you shouldn't even know is happening?"

"But I did know." Alagosiell shakes her head slightly. "It is a gift the Mallenrim have never lost, of foresight, if only in certain narrow circumstances of which you need not the details. Indeed, are not permitted the details."

"Because I am not of the Mallenrim?" The young man tilts his head, narrowing his eyes.

"Because you are a man who is not my close kin."

Young Tarnost's lips twitch into a ghost of a smile. "Then I shall not ask more closely of that. Though I am still curious for whom you sail."

"And you shall learn, should you live long enough." Alagosiell lets out a small huff of amusement. "Does anyone else care to speak of things that are not what we sailed here for?"

There is silence for a long moment before Aragorn asks how swiftly they can load an army into those ships they have brought, and all turn toward the planning that will bring them to Minas Tirith, and to the aid of their fellows who must by necessity be the focus of Mordor's ire.

* * *

"You were looking to the West past Mordor even when you were a child."

Aragorn's voice is quiet as he comes to stand next to Alagosiell at the bow of the ship, watching through the twilight for the signs of the port where they will bring the ships to shore, the swifter to unleash the army that waits in their holds.

"I have seen this journey since I was too young to put words to it." Alagosiell flexes her fingers around the railing she is leaning against, as if she could speed them up the river by force of will, though they travel as swift as the crimson sails will carry them. Or the oars when there is no wind to blow them along. "Always there is the same face - changing with time as he grew, as I did - waiting for me. Always the same chaos and screams about us."

"I remember." He had been with Idhren and Rhawsul more than one evening when Alagosiell had dodged her nursemaids to come to her parents tear-streaked and furious at the nightmares that woke her. "He named me brother, the one you sail for. That we would see each other again in the White City."

"And so you shall." Alagosiell smiles a moment. "Does the same gift still flow in the veins of the Men of the West, than, that does in my own?"

"Perhaps not as true in most, and perhaps not as strong in him as in his brother, but it is not yet passed out of all memory or skill." Aragorn lets himself echo her smile, leaning on the railing himself. "There is still strength here, or we would not be sailing to anyone's aid."

"I doubt not their strength. I never have. Their manners, some of them, perhaps, but never their strength." Alagosiell takes a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment. "Soon. This gloom speaks of more than the late watches of the night, and we draw close to battle with it."

"Then we should ready ourselves for what comes." Aragorn straightens, and pauses when Alagosiell reaches out to grip his arm. He blinks, furrowing his brow slightly as he meets her gaze.

"He named you his brother. Would you lend me aid in the arming for the coming battle?"

Aragorn watches Alagosiell for a long moment before he nods, though he knows he doesn't have much to armor himself with. Only what he had brought with him through the Paths of the Dead, and that was little enough.

He should have expected he would not have been forgotten in the preparations for this journey, one seen for long years, even if the details perhaps had been hazy for the young child Alagosiell had been when he had been in the east.

"I did not think I had left the armor behind." Aragorn sees the flash of glee on Alagosiell's face before she turns away to the stand which holds her own armor, the crimson lacquer giving the impression it had all been dipped in fresh blood here in the light of the oil lamps.

"You didn't." Idhren is standing still as an unfamiliar servant laces him into his own brilliantly red armor. "It was made to be brought upon this journey, from the measures the armorer still kept, though he frets that it will not fit you properly after so many long years since last you were made proper armor - and the more so that it is his apprentice who made it."

"It will do well enough." Aragorn turns to the empty table which already holds three helms, and an unfamiliar sword alongside the one that he remembers Idhren carrying into battle. That one sings quietly in its sheath, an echo of the familiar hum of Andúril at his side. Made to be in the hands of a king, if one very different from those who were Aragorn's own forebearers. The other seems quieter, though he doesn't know if it is because it is new-forged for the purpose of this journey, or if it is merely one that will not speak where he might hear.

"I went up the Hithduin to see that made." Idhren is pulling on the rough-palmed gloves that pad his hands under the gauntlets, and give him a better grip on his own sword. "In so much as I was allowed to bear witness. Avari forging, as we have not sought since Ramnaur before the last great battles against the Master of Mordor."

Aragorn lets his fingertips touch the scabbard, feeling the waiting power of the blade in the hum under the leather. Perhaps more like Andúril than Idhren's own blade, meant for the hands of one blood line alone.

He lays Andúril next to the helm that is fashioned to echo those worn by the soldiers of Gondor, and turning to move to the black armor waiting for him. Black with trees chased in silver, and stars scattered across the shoulders. Echoing the banner Arwen had sent with her brothers, though it is not quite the arms of the King of Gondor.

"Let them see that you are more than a common soldier, but it is not a crown to proclaim you a conqueror of your birthright." Alagosiell is standing still as a stern-faced woman sees to the proper settling of the first padded silken layers of her armor. "And too, let them see you claim Gondor as your own people, as that banner I saw being packed onto the ship with your companions."

Another servant comes silently to Aragorn's side, helping him to strip down to his underthings, and then to wrap him up in the silk and lacquered steel of the gifted armor. Leaving aside only the helms and swords, though his head is swathed in the silk that will pad the helm. Silk that is, as the armor over it, black brocaded with silver trees and stars.

"I have such a gift for him I made the journey for, as well." Alagosiell's hair is hidden beneath blue silk the color of summer skies above the far eastern oceans, the color the only signal she is something more than mere commander or general. One that shall be unseen beneath her helm when she rides against the enemy. "Though it is perhaps an odd courting gift that I bring to him."

"That you bring him gifts to court him at all, I think he shall find odd enough." Aragorn reaches out to pick up Andúril once more, belting it on over his new armor easily, though he leaves the helm where it sits. They will don those when the ship comes to dock at Harlond.

"Because it is men who pay court to one they would wed anywhere outside of Gaearon Rhûnen?" Alagosiell lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking her head as she belts on her own sword. "A custom I still find strange, though it is common."

"It is not entirely unknown in our own land, though you would not know it by looking to the great princes." Idhren joins them at the table, his sword the last to settle where it belongs, waiting for battle to blood it once more. "Would you let me place your helm when it is time, Lord Randír?"

"I would be honored, Your Majesty." Aragorn touches each of the helms in turn before glancing at Alagosiell. "Might I do that honor for you, Prince Alagosiell, for one who I shall hope to call sister?"

"You may. And I shall place my father's, as a good Prince should see their King made ready for battle."

* * *

It is a battle as he has not fought since his youth, when he was not a prince or a king, but nothing more than a horseman in service. Not a general above the battle to direct it with flag and banner, for here, the armies are not as they are at home. Here, a king will lead from the front. Save here, he does not lead, but does his level best to keep his Prince, his daughter, alive as she drives a wedge into their enemy's flank, banners rising above their heads to bring fear and confusion to the enemy.

Crimson and azure, with their symbols in silver that gleams even in the weakest light, much less the steadily growing light that has come with the dawn over this battlefield. And above even them, borne aloft before them as they stepped from the ships, and now rising high over the chaos of battle, the black and silver banner of Gondor's King.

Idhren smiles grimly behind the mask that Alagosiell had laced in place before they'd come on the deck to take their places at the vanguard of the army. Let the enemy see the banners that fly, and let the Master of Mordor perhaps remember the defeat that he once suffered, and those who came together to fight him then. Even if he knows who fell on those curséd slopes below his tower, he shall not drag another King of the Mallenrim to his doom. Idhren knows well that his death will come long years from now, not here at the hands of such as these.

When the field thins of enemies for a moment, Idhren takes the chance to breathe, bringing his horse level with Alagosiell's as she continues forward, following a path only she knows in full. He does not think the battle done yet - there is a sense of anticipation yet that dances in his blood - but there is a lull.

A lull that does not last, and this brings creatures even he has not seen, and shouting from all who have fought to defend the city that rises now behind them. He can hear another calling to reform the line, one of the riders who came from the other side of the field, and he directs his own to form their own line to join with those other riders.

There is a bare moment to meet the gaze of the other king - for Idhren cannot think the other man mere general, in armor such as his - before there is only the charge, and keeping at the side of his daughter as she fights for these who she has dreamed all her life. Trying to fight creatures who tower above them, and bear great towers upon their backs with archers to harry all around them.

It is in this chaos, the screams of horses and men and the bellows of the great beasts as they fall, that they meet with another who seems glad for the company in clearing the field of enemies, and Idhren sees Alagosiell falter for a moment. It is not a long moment, and he is not the only one to notice. Their new companion brings up a shield to catch the arrow that wings down from one of the beasts not yet fallen, that would have taken Alagosiell through her chest, perhaps through her heart.

"Take it down!" Idhren leaves the stranger to watch Alagosiell's flank as he directs the soldiers who have stayed with him in cutting down the beast whose tower held that archer. Keeping himself as out of range as he can, though it leaves him vulnerable to other enemies. He misses the proper battles of home, where he can see the entire field to direct everyone to victory, not merely a handful of soldiers that have stayed with him through the chaos.

When the battle is over, the sun is shining weakly through the scattering clouds, though it is high overhead, and Idhren has lost track of most of his soldiers, and gathered others to him instead. Alagosiell is still at his side, and the man who'd defended her earlier is on her far side, and for that, at least, Idhren is glad.

"Your armor is strange to me, but I am glad for your aid in this battle." The man's shield is sagging, his arm no doubt heavy with the weariness of battle. "I am Boromir."

"Alagosiell o Palancirion. With me rides my father, Idhren of the Eastern Wall."

Alagosiell's voice is rough with exhaustion, and Idhren nudges his horse closer to hers, letting his knee press against hers. The battle may be done, but there is still work to do. Numbering the dead, tending the wounded, tallying the destruction wrought by the enemy. Reassuring their soldiers that live - and Sinia too, who no doubt frets from where he watches the field from the Rammas Echor at Harlond - and have taken no lasting harm.

"From the East, then?" It is not asked with the same sort of distrust that had colored the Lord of Lamedon's voice, but there is a surprise in Boromir's face that Idhren dislikes nonetheless.

"Beyond the Wall of the East, where the Shadow of Mordor melts before the rising sun." Alagosiell pauses, and Idhren can hear the amusement in her voice a moment later. "Though that perhaps has much to do with coming up against the armies of the Mallenrim, of which we brought but a small portion."

"Enough to be of aid, and I hope not enough to cause your own lands to fall before what Mordor might send against them."

Idhren snorts, flicking his fingers dismissively. "They are well-stocked with generals of many seasons experience, and the Prince-Consort of Harnduin is of no little skill himself. I do not worry for them." He looks out over the field, turning his head enough to see the backs of the retreating enemy, harried by riders who have not yet been called back. "Indeed, I think there is enough here to worry for, with so many fallen in this battle, ally and enemy alike. It shall be a great task to number and dispose of the dead, and the daylight will not last long enough to tally them all."

Boromir lets out a quiet, tired sigh, sorrow weighting his shoulders a moment. "No, it will not. But it will last long enough, I shall hope, to gather as many wounded as we might find that can be saved."

"Than we should begin to look to the fallen, that we may number the dead and take the living where their wounds might be tended." Alagosiell straightens in her saddle, her voice underlaid with steel. The Voice of the Queen speaking her command to the general of her soldiers, and one that Idhren is glad to put those he still has to command to the task of.

Only when the sun dips behind the mountain behind the city do they stop, Boromir inviting them to follow him up the winding way through each level until they reach a courtyard with a barren tree under guard. A stranger in white robes - liberally spattered with black blood - is waiting for them, and Boromir frowns as he approaches the man.

Idhren follows in enough time to hear the stranger address Boromir as the Steward, and he is too tired to summon a smile behind his mask.

"And who are these, your companions, Boromir?"

The stranger is looking at Idhren with eyes that remind him of the visitor at the forge two years past when he went to fetch the gift he'd had made for Alagosiell. It makes him stand a little straighter, drawing in a sharp breath.

"I am Alagosiell o Palancirion, Prince of Tol Sáid, and Voice of the Queen." Alagosiell's voice is heavy with exhaustion, but still steady and confident. "With me comes my father, Idhren of the Eastern Wall, King of the Mallenrim, shield-arm to defend me, and general of that of our armies which came with us to defend the Western Kingdoms of Fallen Númenor against the Master of Mordor." She pauses, visibly drawing herself up to glare at the stranger. "Who are you to question us as if we come as thieves in the night?"

"Peace, please." Boromir sounds more than exhausted, his voice heavy with what Idhren thinks is grief. Is his being the Steward something new-come to him with a death? "They brought aid to Gondor, Mithrandir, and more than themselves, for I saw Aragorn's banner come with their own from my watch upon the wall."

Boromir turns, a tired smile on his face for a moment before it runs away like water from a cracked bowl. "Forgive Mithrandir. The siege has been long, and I do not know that he has slept more than what little any of us has."

Alagosiell tilts her head, and Idhren makes a small gesture of dismissal. There is nothing to forgive, save perhaps frayed tempers all around, and those can be remedied with food, drink, and sleep.

"Stories can be told later, that all can be assured, when all have partaken of sleep and a meal." Idhren tugs off one gauntlet and glove, reaching up with stiff fingers to unlace the mask of his helm so he can lift it free. His head feels as if it might float away on the breeze that washes cool over his face and through his close-cropped hair, if only for a moment. It is warning enough, though, that he should eat, and more than the light rations he has snatched while providing what aid he might after the battle.

It seems that is enough to have them escorted to a building away from the guarded tree, where servants bring cold meat and bread that are enough to take the edge off their hunger. There are rooms provided that have the dusty smell of disuse and inadequate airing, but they're enough for now. Idhren makes sure Alagosiell is capable of extracting herself from her armor before he bothers to remove his own, laying it out where he can. All else can wait until he has slept, and in a bed that is not rocking at anchor or under sail for the first time in many long months.


End file.
